You Suck at Tennis

the phone doesn't ring as often as it did.

I and I getting used to
you and you
three thousand miles
is not a damn thing anymore
and three hours--
in the space of Spain
I could find Seattle.

but my Jersey summer cigarette
lights as fireworks
against a four a.m. sky
an itch in my knees
and I like the morning moon--

you and I
sea and sky
if I could leave you,
I wouldn't anyway;
I don't know where your
eyes are
but I hope they're on me.

and if Kerouac's a never-ending essay
I am haiku on pre-war walls
a metaphor in taste
longing to give just
the smallest mark more
to leave you breathless
and helpless helpless
in the wake of stronger silences
than conversation makes.

and someone tells me
I could sleep it off
but a hundred thousand sunrise daydreams
touch further
than a hundred thousand nightmares
painting realities I can't reach.

so pin me with your nothings;
I am in your head,
ruining everything,
until the last call Northwest kiss
brushes gentle goodbyes,
and sculpts me into something firmer,
more willing to lose,
than what I've become.